I Veritas
by wild wolf free17
Summary: You know, originally, very few fairy tales had a happy ending. [anthology]
1. Veritas

* * *

**Title**: Veritas

**Fandom**: various

**Dislcaimer**: the various characters and tales mentioned? I dinna think 'em up.

**Warnings**: spoilers for various stories you should already know

**Pairings**: mentions of various prince/princess hook-ups

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 240

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Type**: poem

* * *

You know, fairy tales rarely had a happy ending.  
They were bloody and grim, tragedies of Greek proportions.  
That's forgotten, these days, with Disney-fluff and kid books,  
With bedtime stories of kings and princesses and magical Godmothers  
Who always grant the wish. 

Snow White's mother was the one who wanted her heart,  
And the poor dear died three times.  
Sleeping Beauty was raped as she slept,  
And woke to her children feeding at her breast.  
Cinderella's stepsisters sawed at their feet to fit in the slipper,  
And have you ever heard of what happened after 'happily ever after'?

Rapunzel's boy lost his eyes,  
And Snow White's stepmother(if you want to update the tale)  
Danced herself to death at the sweet princess's wedding on burning shoes.  
Hansel and Gretal were cooked to be eaten  
And children don't get happy endings.

The little mermaid died as the prince kissed another,  
The sweet fish-girl became foam or cloud-dust, something,  
And all her sisters mourned, wept, screamed.  
There are so few happy endings, so why all the lies?  
Why tell children that Goldilocks didn't get eaten  
Or not mention that Prince Charming is lying dead on the floor?

Oh, that's right—  
They're children's tales now, and children are innocent weaklings  
Who can't know the truth because of how painful it is.  
There is no happily ever after, no riding into the sunset on a noble steed—  
The sun would scorch everyone, anyway.


	2. Tower

**Title**: Tower

**Fandom**: "Rapunzel"

**Disclaimer**: everyone herein is mine; only the basic story isn't.

**Warnings**: non-con

**Pairings**: prince/girl happily locked away in tower

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 1715

**Point** **of** **view**: first

**Type**: prose

* * *

Locked away in that Tower, all I had to do was read. Medina, the witch who got me for a weed, would get me any book I asked for. I did not hate her. I could not: she was all I had. And I did not hate my parents. If they had not given me to her, I would have had to work, and grow weary of life. But Medina had me, and so there was no need for exertion and toil. 

The Tower was beautiful, and furnished like the palaces I read about in books. From my window, I could see a castle in the distance, the turrets jutting above the trees. Between the castle and my Tower, there was a forest. Sometimes I longed to enter the trees, to explore. But those times always passed, and I was glad of it.

My Tower had three rooms and one staircase. I once asked Medina about it, and she said that a rich man had owed her a favor. By her tone, I knew not to ask more. There was a kitchen, a bathroom, and my bedroom. My room had a library, a bed, and a table, with a bench below the window.

I spent my days reading or writing, and my nights sleeping. I had no need to cook or clean; Medina had given me invisible servants. I had no wants, and all my needs were addressed as soon as I expressed them.

Medina would visit me once a week, bringing books, notebooks, and pens or pencils. No matter what stories are told, Medina never climbed up my hair. She was a witch; how could that be forgotten? She would use her magic to open the door and climb the stairs to my room. We would go to the kitchen, where the servants had a meal waiting. My hair—short and black, not golden—did not factor into it at all.

I was always happy to see her. We would speak for hours about books and writers. She read as much as I did; maybe more. She taught me parts of her craft; not all of it, because she said that I had not the heart for the rest. Not yet. I learned well, and she was a wonderful teacher. She was kind to me and rarely lost her temper. She never struck me.

All in all, I liked my life of leisure. And then the prince came.

-

The tale of Rueben falling in love with my voice is not true. I could not sing, not well enough for anyone to love.

I had no desire to meet a man; I was seventeen, but I loved books. Men would take books from me and make me sew, and have children. Medina and authors told me that.

Rueben was a beautiful man. He still is. His hair is sunshine-gold, and his eyes a dark jade green. I did not love him. I did not even _like_ him. His eyes, heavenly as they were, were cold. Cruel. Empty.

I could not love him. Not then. Not now. Not ever. No one, I think, could ever _truly_ love Rueben. He was feared, lusted after, but _never_ loved.

Often I remember those days, shut away in my Tower. Quiet days, of reading, writing, contemplating. I wonder, as I pull my young daughter to my breast and watch my son sleep, if I had leaped from my Tower, would I be happier?

But I get ahead of myself.

Rueben, out hunting one day, caught sight of Medina, hurrying toward my Tower. He followed her and she lead him straight to the hidden door. Later, he would tell me that he loved my voice, that my voice lead him to me. Not only was that an out-and-out lie, it could never have been true. He never loved anyone but himself, not even our children.

Anyway, he melted back into the forest and watched Medina. She said, "Open, entrance, and grant me passage." The Tower tasted her magic and the door opened. She entered.

Perhaps I should explain about Rueben. He is the only child of King Martin and Queen Isabel. Martin was forty when his son was born, and Isabel only twenty-two. Martin spoiled his young wife and, in turn, Rueben, as well. He was a beautiful young boy and no one could deny him anything. But he was soon revealed to be a monster, beneath that divine face. What Rueben wanted, Rueben got, and he wanted to know what was in that Tower.

He'd always had a gift for voices and he's the greatest mimic I've ever met. His other talent makes me think the gods meant to curse me with him. He can sample magic and hold onto it for hours. When Medina left, he reached out with his magic, to pull a piece of hers. Medina is a powerful witch, but her mind was on her next contract, not impudent princes. She did not feel him. Many times over the past few years, I've wished that she had. That she'd struck him down with all of her hate. But she did not.

He waited until she was long gone and then walked to the Tower. Mimicking her voice, he repeated what she said. The Tower tasted his magic and he thrust out hers. The Tower hesitated, and tasted again. For one instant, Rueben thought he would be rejected, for the first time in his life. But he was not.

The door opened, and he walked in.

-

I was reading on my window seat and nibbling a brownie. I turned a page in my book and felt something I had never felt before. I looked over my shoulder and I knew exactly what he was.

I read books. Medina told me. I knew what men wanted from a woman. And I knew that I was beautiful. My eyes are a deep, dark blue; my hair is the color of ebony. My skin was clear and, though I did no work, I was thin and curvy.

Rueben wanted me. Even I, innocent of men, could see the desire in his eyes. He spoke, "Your name, maid."

I licked my lips and stood. I wore the shift I usually slept in, as it neared sunset. It covered almost nothing. My hair was still damp from my bath. His eyes trailed down my body. "Astryn," I answered and swallowed.

"Astryn," he repeated. "I am Rueben, the prince of Corin. Will you be my bride?"

His eyes had traveled my body and now met mine. I _could not_ say yes. But I _dared not_ say no. I am a petite woman, and he towered above me. He was broad and strong. And I had never met a man before. "Yes," I whispered.

He smiled. I felt fear, for the first time in my existence. He strode across the room. I knew the servants could do nothing. I knew that I could do nothing.

"We are formally engaged, then, Astryn," he whispered in my ear, "And so you are mine."

He tore my shift from me, and I shut off my mind.

-

After he was done, he left. He told me he would be back later, to bring me home. I heard, but I did not listen. I hurt, but I felt no pain. I was gone, locked away, somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind.

Medina returned the next day. I didn't realize until later that the servants had called her. She held me, sobbed enough for both of us. "We will deal with this boy, my Ryn," she swore in a voice I barely recognized, "He _will_ feel the pain he inflicted."

She cleaned me and burned the bed-clothes. I took a long, warm bath, scoured ever inch of my body, but I still felt dirty. Finally, safe in her arms, I wept. "I didn't _try_ to fight him, Momma," I cried, "He was so much _bigger_ than me."

She kissed my forehead, murmured nonsense words. "I know, my dear. That's why I shut you away. I did not wish you pain. But pain, it seems, has found you."

I remembered what he'd said. "He's coming back, Medina!" I screamed. "_He's coming back_!"My body was poised to flee. "I'll leap out the window, before he takes me again!"

She cupped my face in her hands. "Astryn, you carry a child."

I collapsed. "What?"

"Not yet, but soon. I can hear his little voice. 'Momma, Momma,' he cries. Will you destroy this little boy, innocent of all wrongdoing?" She spoke softly. She would stand beside me, no matter my choice.

"Can we not leave, Medina? Can we not go? _You are a witch_! Can you not kill him?" My voice was wild, panicked. I felt angry with her, for not protecting me better, for not being better prepared.

"I cannot kill him, my dear," she said, not looking at me. "He is protected by magic more powerful than mine. Yes, I know who he is." She looked around my room. "His presence stains the walls. I cannot kill him outright. But I can..." She turned back to me. "I can give you something. When you are ready, when you _know_ the time has come..." She took a deep breath. "I will prepare a poison, now. It will be ready when he returns." She stood.

"A poison?" I asked.

She paused by the door to the kitchen. I could already hear the servants bustling around, preparing her ingredients. "I will make the poison, child. And I will leave. When you use it on Rueben, I will know. And I will come back. I will take you and your son and your daughter away from Corin." She walked into the kitchen.

-

That was three years ago now. He married me, and he used me, and I gave him children. A beautiful little boy, Donal, and a daughter, Nina. The time has not come, not yet.

My story, being locked in a tower by a witch and rescued by a prince, has become legend. And, like all legends, it is distorted.

And I wait for my time. I feel it approaching. I'll not wait much longer.

Soon, Rueben will die.


	3. Beast

**Title**: Beast

**Fandom**: Beauty and the Beast

**Disclaimer**: not my character; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for the fairy tale

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 570

**Point** **of** **view**: first

**Type**: poem

_

* * *

Forever broken, so they say._

_Always shattered, wings—did I have wings?—in tatters,_

_Tarnished halo fallen to my feet._

_And these glittering claws in place of hands—_

_Oh, how I miss my nimble fingers._

_Is this punishment not a bit much?_

___o0o_

_Doubled in size, all lumbering limbs._

_I had to learn to walk again._

_Beady eyes that can't see in light,_

_And a roar to shatter the sky—_

_How I long to sing, but can only howl,_

_And I never take off this cowl._

_o0o_

_I'm always hungry now, can never be sated._

_I prowl around the castle, all gilded and dusty,_

_Searching for something, though I'm never sure what._

_The servants, also cursed, mutter when they think I can't hear,_

_But my hearing is superb—I long for silence, and never find it, either._

_My only joy in the midst of all this torment are the roses._

_o0o_

_I never realized, when I wore my first form, _

_That flowers glimmering in the rain could be so beautiful._

_I find that now, after becoming such a blemish on the world,_

_I appreciate beauty all the more. _

_And it pains me most that I've no one to talk to, _

_To share my epiphany._

_When she cursed me, that witch_

— _though, I know now, 'tis my own fault—_

_I wanted to die, to leave behind all the pain caused by being such a monster._

_But as I fled into the night, full of terror and horror, _

_I saw them gleaming in the moonlight, lit as from Heaven._

_My mother's roses, her triumph—perfect and flawless and _

_As beautiful as I am grotesque._

_I'd never noticed before, in my life of debauchery,_

_And now—now I see it all the time, and it fills me with joy._

_o0o_

_Crimson red with leaves of emerald, _

_Thorns that can no longer pierce my skin,_

_Silk-soft petals I cannot feel through my thick pads,_

_And how they gleam in the sun, how they shimmer,_

_Recalling to mind lost innocence. _

_And I cannot speak with the servants—I know they wouldn't understand._

_And that one rose, the most beautiful one, is cursed to show _

_The death of my human half—_

_o0o_

_Time runs short, here in the castle—_

_Soon I shan't even be able to speak, as my voice grows hoarser and coarser._

_And the servants tiptoe, as best they can, and still always get on my nerves._

_I can't help it—I'm falling apart, bit by bit, shedding my humanity with my fur._

_And they whisper of the curse, how it'll never be broken, _

_And I flee into the garden with the roses._

_o0o_

_I fall to my knees, soaking in their scent, and long to cry._

_Tears were lost with fingers, though, and I can only weep inside._

_Can only sob my hardest in dreams, half-remembered upon awakening,_

_Dreams and nightmares mingled as I long for what I used to be._

_And perhaps I haven't learned my lesson yet—could that be it?_

_Will this curse break if I learn my lesson?_

_Will it ever be shattered, as shattered as me?_

_o0o_

_Forever broken, so they say. _

_Always shattered, wings—did I have wings?—in tatters,_

_Tarnished halo fallen to my feet._

_And these glittering claws in place of hands—_

_Oh, how I miss my nimble fingers._

_Is this punishment not a bit much?_

_o0o_

_What Beauty could ever love a Beast?_


	4. Wolf

**Title**: Wolf

**Fandom**: Little Red Ridinghood

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the fairy tale. There is a line from "Romeo and Juliet" in here. Belongs to Shakespeare, or whoever owns his plays now.

**Warnings**: implied child abuse, death, pedophilia

**Pairings**: ... -shrugs-

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 500

**Point** **of** **view**: third and first

* * *

_A plague on both your houses!_

So said him as he died.

-

She wears a cloak of fury and fire,

hiding her drab moth-wings and porcelain skin.

The hood is always up, shielding her ebon-straw hair

from the harsh elements that will fade it further

away from that raven's-wing it used to be.

-

**_And the wind howls, _**

**_shrieking through the trees, _**

**_and you run, little one, _**

**_but you'll never escape me. _**

-

Mama doesn't know, doesn't want to know;

and eyes can't see what the mind won't acknowledge.

So Mama just sews and sews, blind to the

fallen child across the dinner table.

And Papa, oh Papa, she's still his little girl,

but she stopped being little long ago.

-

_A plague on both your houses! _

He was her favorite from that story,

and oh, how he died.

-

The forest is cold as she trudges through it;

her feet shuffle in the freezing snow.

She kicked off her slippers back at the house,

and now she curses such foolishness.

She clutches her threadbare cloak,

torn and unraveling and not warm at all,

closer about her shoulders.

The ruby bled from it long ago.

-

**_Come closer, little one, _**

**_run your fingers through my hair. _**

**_Do not fear me, my dear, _**

**_for you'll never escape. _**

-

_A plague on both your houses! _

It echoes in her head, his dying curse,

and she whispers it to herself,

hurrying through the darkened woods.

-

Papa smiles sadly at Mama, pulling her close.

She lies in his arms, silent tears on her face.

She clutches his shirt, mutters a plea,

and he says, _Forgive me_.

Mama shakes her head, sobs harder,

and Papa presses a kiss to her hair.

-

Her footsteps fade into the snow.

Threads of a crimson cloak flutter in the icy breeze,

threads with no cape to be seen.

Here a faded hair, there a faded hair,

and look! There a bloodstain.

She wore that cloak to hide her drab moth-wings,

to shield herself from the world and its pain—

and look.

There, do you see?

Mama sewed that cape

and Mama carried her to term

and Mama now weeps in Papa's arms,

because the Wolf, as always, has won.

-

She was Papa's little girl.

But she stopped being little long ago.

And her cloak of fury and fire could not mask the experience.

She was Papa's little girl.

and what's his stays his.

-

_A plague on both your houses! _

If she'd had last words, they'd be the same as his.

-

**_And the wind moans, _**

**_sighing through the trees, _**

**_and you cry, little one, _**

**_but you've finally sated me. _**

-

The Wolf licked his lips

and his fangs glistened in the moonlight.

The Wolf laughed and dug a hole

for her fragile little bones.


	5. Glory

**Title**: Glory

**Fandom**: Sleeping Beauty

**Disclaimer**: I do not own the fairy tale. However, 'tis my poem.

**Warnings**: spoilers for the fairy tale

**Pairings**: mentions of OMC/OFC

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 910

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Type**: prose

* * *

He stopped within sight of the castle. It was dark and oppressive; he could feel the rain coming. The vines had nearly swallowed the castle whole, it seemed. Prince Darius could see the skeletons entwined with the vines, some of them still holding their swords. He had lost his, way back, days ago. 

Along with his retinue and horse. The poor beast. His stallion would have come on with him, even to this evil place. Darius could not break him like that. It was too cruel. But his servants and squire... they had abandoned him, the traitors. If he made it out of this place alive, Darius swore that he would punish them.

His armor sparkled in the fading sunlight, as the sun reached the far west. Darius looked up, knowing the night would make the vines into something far worse than they already were. His armor wasn't as shiny as it could have been; his boots were near worn through. He had new scars, from the thorns on the vines, and bruises all over his body. His muscles ached, and he wanted to go home.

But he had come this far, and he would not back out now. He wanted—no, he _needed_—the recognition. He needed his name to be remembered forever.

He had heard the tale before, of course. Everyone had. The royals who wanted a child, the birth, the forgotten fairy, the curse—something about a spindle, one hundred years, and a noble man with a kiss.

Whoever awoke, or rescued, depending on the tale, the princess would get her hand in marriage, her kingdom, and enough glory to fill two life-times.

Darius already had a kingdom and a bride. He wanted glory. But he was starting to feel a bit of fear, the closer he got to the castle.

The survivors of this place, the knights and princes and peasants who wanted a better a life, the ones who fled before the vines claimed them, said that they had heard a female voice, high and full and beautiful, singing a sad song, accompanied by a harp. They could only make out a few words; they were too far away to hear clearly.

They said it was like a siren, luring them to their doom. One knight, the man nearly driven mad by the cruel vines, said that his fellows who heard the voice threw themselves on the thorns, so fierce their determination to reach the singer was.

Darius heard that voice now.

-

_**Do not speak to me of love and fine horses **_

_**Do not speak to me of roses **_

_**And castles that gleam at sunset **_

_**And flags that wave in the breeze welcoming you home **_

-

It was beautiful, but not something to get worked up over. He looked down at the ground, and stepped over a skeleton that had vines growing out of its eyes. He picked his way carefully, and the girl continued to sing.

-

_**Do not whisper amorous words in hope of passion kindled**_

_**Do not try to make me laugh or smile**_

_**I have no joy left no glimmer of what you see **_

_**It is a fruitless quest you journey on boy **_

_**And you shall never find the end **_

-

Very well, perhaps she wasn't that bad. Darius saw the doorway, merely steps away. Vines covered it completely, their thorns thrusting out, blocking it. He muttered a curse. How could he finish this? 

On the ground he saw a glint. He knelt, and picked up a key. He turned it over in his hand, and glanced at the door.

Just barely through the vines, he saw a lock.

-

_**Return to your family and your stallions **_

_**Return to your swords and bows **_

- 

He stood and walked to the door. He reached through the vines and inserted the key. It fit. He turned it, and the vines moved. One reached for him, and he just kept himself from leaping away.

He trembled as the vine touched his cheek, appraising him, and one of the thorns drew blood.

He remembered Rochel, his betrothed back home. Why had he left her? For glory? Riches?

_Why_?

-

**_Return gallant young man _**

-

More vines moved toward him, and a few tears poured down his cheeks. He remembered his mother and father, his sister and brothers. He remembered his home and pack of dogs, his beautiful kingdom. _Why_ had he left it all?

He yanked open the door.

-

_**Before you are taken by the glory that has ruined so many others **_

- 

The vines tightened around him. "Rochel..." he whispered. He closed his eyes.

_-_

_**Or is it already too late? **_

_-_

By the window in the tower, a golden haired young woman set aside her harp. She stood gracefully, and glided across the room. At the desk by the door, she grabbed a piece of paper and a quill. She dipped the quill in ink, and looked toward the window. "Why do you keep coming here?" she asked. "What is it all of you seek?" On the paper she made a mark.

She returned to the window, and started to strum the harp. Opening her mouth, she sang.

-

_**Do not speak to me of love and fine horses **_

_**Do not mention glory attained **_

_**I need not what you can give **_

_**A handsome man's kiss**_

_**I want more **_

_**Do not speak to me of love and fine horses**_


	6. Rose

**Title**: Rose

**Fandom**: Sleeping Beauty

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the fairy tale.

**Warnings**: spoilers for the fairy tale.

**Pairings**: king/queen, prince/princess

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 350

**Point** **of** **view**: third and first

**Type**: poem

* * *

_I am a rose._  
_What are you?_

The princess twirls around in his arms,  
Clothed in satin and velvet.  
Her hair shimmers gold and her dress is crimson red.  
Broadly she smiles, enthralled in his eyes,  
And he dips and whirls her, grinning in return.

The witch, the evil fairy, the villain of the story—  
She glowers from the shadows.  
She is not defeated yet.  
_  
I am a rose.  
__I have not yet wilted.  
__And I shall not fade into anonymity.  
__Do not forget _

Once upon a time, they were young lovers, too.  
Ages and ages ago, when the world wasn't so hard,  
The then-prince took her hand and kissed her  
And asked only for her love.  
She laughed with joy and pulled him close;  
There were no dragons to slay, no evils to defeat—  
Only a wedding to plan.  
And as they dance, they wish their daughter's tale had been so easy.  
_  
I am a rose.  
__Feed me legends and myths;  
__Share with me the glory of the sky.  
__I cannot move from this bed,  
__Surrounded by brothers and sisters and children,  
__I cannot walk the earth, cannot see beyond the walls—  
_

A wedding is planned this night.  
A lifetime of happiness and love stretches before them,  
The young royals, a lifetime insured by the defeat of the curse.  
_  
Defeat? What defeat?  
__Evil is never defeated, merely postponed._

From the shadows, her eyes glint.


	7. And Into The Sky

**Title**: And Into The Sky

**Fandom**: numerous

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for various fairy tales

**Pairings**: various fairy talke hook-ups

**Rating**: PG13

**Wordcount**: 305

**Point** **of** **view**: first

**Type**: poem

* * *

_Princesses sit in towers, forgotten  
Princes ride their noble steeds into the sunset, unforgiven  
And the witches all cackle 'round the pots and stir the brew_'_round the prickly pears we go  
__  
Dragons spurt their fire up into the blood-drenched clouds  
__Unicorns gallop into the sea  
__Wolves howl in the night to the moon, begging  
__  
And no one hears, no one ever hears  
__  
Three by three, four by four,  
_'_round the prickly pears we go  
__  
Spread your wings, the minstrels chant  
__Spread your wings and soar away  
__Spread your wings, dear child—you, at least, can escape  
__  
The tiara balances on a precipice  
__The scepter shatters on the stones  
__The throne rusts and is covered by dust  
__  
And no one cares, no one ever cares  
__  
Scheherazade's voice fails and the king takes her life  
__Icarus' wings don't melt and he soars into the sun  
__Cinderella lives happily ever after, but Snow White dies—  
__  
Isn't life a grand fairytale?  
__  
Five by five, six by six  
_'_round the prickly pears we go  
__  
The princesses fade into the shadows  
__The princes burn come light of day  
__And no one ever thought it could end  
__  
No one ever thought it could end  
__Legends never die  
__  
Legends aren't supposed to die  
__  
Seven by seven, eight by eight  
_'_round the prickly pears we go  
__  
Mary, Mary, quite contrary  
__Didn't you wed Little Boy Blue?  
__  
Where is Valiant, and Charming?  
__Where are the heroes to slay the dragons—  
__Why has Hercules gone away?  
__  
Medusa wasn't supposed to kill Perseus—  
__Get your legends straight  
__  
Nine by nine, ten by ten  
_'_round the prickly pears we go  
__  
Can't we start again?  
__I don't think I like where this is going…  
__  
Who's that on the pale horse?  
__And what is following behind him?  
__  
Give to me the sky_


	8. scrape the guts out of some dream

**Title**: scrap the guts out of some dream

**Fandom**: _Sleeping Beauty_

**Disclaimer**: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Anne Sexton.

**Warnings**: spoilers for the fairy tale

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 120

**Point** **of** **view**: first

* * *

She was not always cruel, you know. Oh, she was so sweet, so gentle, so kind… daisies and roses and puppies and sunlight. They will tell you of her cruelty and her malice, of her fury and her greed. But they will not speak of how she was slighted and how she hurt—and how, in the end, as she begged forgiveness and mercy, those six good fairies helped the young prince strike her down.

They call my lady evil, malicious. They say she sought only to sow despair and discord, that she loves only pain. Loved only pain. I must remember to speak in past tense—she is gone. Killed by the handsome young prince and those lying, traitorous fairies.


	9. finally, spring comes

**Title**: finally, spring comes

**Fandom**: Snow White

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for centuries-old fairy tale

**Pairings**: Snow White/prince

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 140

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Snow White, a more colorful life

* * *

After the wedding, Snow cleared out the palace of any of Stepmother's things. She kept only the mirror.

Her husband asked her why, when she wore summersky blue and gentle lavender, bright orange scarves and light pink gloves and grass green boots. She never matched, and while her beauty more than made up for it, the court talked.

Snow didn't care. She danced in front of the mirror, laughing, finally able to be as colorful as she wanted. No more a drab little moth of a girl, now Snow was queen. The mirror was hers, the crown and the throne, with her ebony hair, bloodred lips, and skin pale as her namesake.

No more moth of a girl, servant, lowly. She was finally spreading her wings, flowering into a blossom, spiraling up to the sky, colorful as the dawn.


	10. blessings or curses

**Title**: blessings or curses

**Fandom**: Sleeping Beauty

**Disclaimer**: my characters; not my fairy tale

**Warnings**: spoilers for a centuries' old legend

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 180

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: first time the fairy godmother's/other kindly helpers' plans go terribly terribly wrong

* * *

When Prince Edmund entered the Enchanted Castle, loyal Calliope at his side, he knew something was very wrong.

"We shouldn't be here," Calliope murmured, ears pricked forward, ruff up. "It is not right."

"I am a prince," Edmund told her softly, gently rubbing along her spine. "There is a princess here in need of awakening."

"No, Ed," Calliope, breathing deep. "There is nothing here but bones."

Walking further in, Edmund saw that she was correct: skeletons were everywhere, clothes in tatters hanging off them. All were slumped over, some into cups and bowls, some against the walls. Some in the middle of the walkway.

Edmund did not continue his quest into the Enchanted Castle.

"I do not understand," he later said to his mother.

She kissed his cheek and replied, "Not all magic goes to according to plan, my dear. We do not speak of it."

He nodded and left on the morrow, Calliope at his side, this time going deep into the woods to the east. He'd heard tell of a beautiful maiden trapped in a tower with no doors.


	11. sea salt

**Title**: sea salt

**Fandom**: The Little Mermaid

**Written**: April-May 2010

* * *

Warmth comes with the light,

drying the salt from her skin

until the sea is only in her

sweat and tears.

With her steps on the harsh ground,

so little soft on land,

things are hard and cold—

but the fire and the sun

and the cloth her prince's servants drape on her.

Baths hurt, being so close yet so far from home,

and dusk brings warnings from the witch:

time passing but no yes, no kiss, no marriage.

Why is she here,

a daughter of the sea on dirt?

Storms harass the coast, her family's lament,

and she stands on trembling legs,

singing the waters to calm.

Her sisters know the ending looms

and yet no kiss,

an ocean in her sweat and her tears

as the prince she loves weds another.

He doesn't know because the sea's daughter cannot speak

and the blade is cold in her hands,

her sisters' song loud in her heart,

her survival dependent on his demise.

The moon is her mother and the hurricane her father,

and no, she will not hurt the man she loves.

She leaves, knife falling from shaking fingers,

and the water embraces her for a single moment,

and her sisters scream,

and her mother weeps,

and her father rages,

but the prince doesn't know

and the young woman who loved him,

who smiled so beautifully and laughed so silently,

who looked at everything with wonder,

who watched him with adoring eyes—

she is gone forever to pay the witch,

her life for her love,

forever in the ocean now,

ever part of the waves as sea foam.


	12. the people's princess

**Title**: the people's princess

**Fandom**: Cinderella

**Disclaimer**: not my characters

**Warnings**: spoilers for the fairy tale; a bit of fluff

**Pairings**: Prince/Cinderella

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 550

**Point** **of** **view**: third

**Prompt**: Fairy tales, Cinderella, life's not all balls and glass slippers.

* * *

The first year is spent breathless, clinging to her husband's hand, listening to everything her tutors and mother-in-law have to say. She is not a fool, but she has been a servant for the past ten years and now - one day, she will wear a crown and sit on a throne. She must be prepared, and bright, ready for all sorts of calamities that a little cinder girl could not even comprehend.

The people love her. The courtiers, not so much.

But her husband – he is patient, he is kind, he dances with her around their chamber and kisses her so fervently she can finally believe this is no soon-to-be-woken-from dream.

0o0

The second year, the queen suffers a fit during her morning walk and dies before the doctor can reach her.

A month later, the king succumbs to a wasting disease that everyone knows is a broken heart.

When her husband is crowned, the people's princess is crying. When _she_ is crowned, she is crying still.

0o0

She is not ready. How could she be? Not two years ago, she was cleaning out the fireplace.

Her husband kisses her hand, smiling the gentle smile he wore when her foot fit the slipper and their hands recognized each other.

The people love her. The courtiers give her painted smiles. She speaks to the servants like they have thoughts, and she visits the marketplace weekly, taking only one guard, without her crown or royal gown.

She had been a noble's daughter, but she was a slave for longer, and if she is to ever look back with pride, then she _must_ be the people's princess. The commoner's queen.

She explains it to her husband during the night, their fingers tangled and her head on his chest. She knows that life is more than balls and gowns and parties, expensive food and jewels and cloth. He listens and looks at her and tells her that she is the queen and to do what feels right.

0o0

She holds her head high and buys a flower from a girl in dirty rags. She smiles and orders a bolt of cloth from a stall staffed by a tired woman. She speaks to a tavern owner about the best way to get rid of smoke's stench and asks a young pickpocket if he has a roof over his head at night.

Her guard follows her with a scowl, but he stands back as she speaks to the people, keeping one eye on the roofs and one on the crowd.

This is only the first year of her reign, the second since the ball. None of these commoners know who she is, yet. They talk openly, not censoring the truth about how they feel, how they think their new king and queen are doing.

But she is the people's princess, the commoner's queen. Soon, they will all recognize her.

0o0

When she is old and grey, she well still sneak away to mingle. Few will not know her then, but they will all let her think she succeeds in fooling them.

Her husband will listen to her tales of the marketplace and the streets, the flower girl and the pickpocket, the rough meal she laughs her way through.

She will die still called the people's princess, the commoner's queen.


	13. not far from the tree

**Title**: not far from the tree

**Fandom**: Cinderella

**Disclaimer**: the basic premise isn't mine; all of the characters are

**Warnings**: fluff? schoomp? situations resolved offscreen?

**Pairings**: a great deal of OMC/OFC

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 1150

**Point of view**: third

**Prompt**: Fairy Tales, Cinderella, she teaches her son the value of work, and it makes him the best king the realm had ever known

**Notes**: I'm going to attempt fleshing this out into a novel. Wish me luck.

* * *

Jacques has her eyes and his father's smile. He laughs like his grandda did and wears the circlet of Crown Prince with a solemnity that could only have come from his grandmother, the late Queen Mother.

Aaron doesn't understand why Jocelyn takes their children with her to the market every Tuesday and Thursday, just after lunch. Jacques always spends those mornings with his father, listening to the problems commoners bring before the throne, seeking aid or retribution. During the first three years he sat in, Aaron never asked Jacques what he thought should be done; Jacques complained about that more than once, storming around Jocelyn's tearoom like a little thundercloud. But recently, since Jacques turned sixteen, Aaron listens to him. He rarely follows Jacques suggestions, of course, as their son is still so young, but he gives Jacques due consideration, and Jacques is honored by that.

Yvette and Rochelle are five years younger than their brother. Yvette looks just like her royal grandmother, hair as bright as the sun and eyes shining like the sea Jocelyn fell in love with in her first months with Aaron, when he took her on a whirlwind tour to introduce his new bride to her people. Rochelle is darker, with Aaron's black hair and Da's eyes.

Rochelle enjoys going to the market the most. She's kinder to the servants than all of the courtiers and she makes notes of the ways the poor can be helped. She's barely eleven, but she speaks passionately about it, phrasing everything in a way even the stodgiest old coot can't deny she's right. Aaron smiles, and asks her to help him draft a new law. Rochelle has no interest in the princes already clamoring for her attention, or the nobility that showers her with compliments about her raven locks and dazzling green eyes. She wants to change social policy, and she steals away all of Jacques' Saturday mornings, sitting him down in the princesses' tearoom for lessons about what needs to be fixed and the best ways to go about it.

Yvette is the court's darling, but her sharp eyes miss nothing. All the ladies adore her, not noticing the tidbits she soaks up, delivered to her mother. Jocelyn was once a slave to women much like most of those court ladies. She wants no one like that to have too much power, and her daughters will not marry the sons of anyone like her stepmother. Yvette knows all the secrets of the court before she's twelve. Jocelyn knows what to do with the things her daughter learns.

And Jacques. Dear Jacques. Future king. One week of each year since his sixth birthday has been spent doing all the chores a castle requires. He has emptied chamber pots and swept the stairs, scrubbed the kitchen floor and fed the livestock. He understands hard work and appreciates all the effort put into his home. Thanks to Rochelle, he speaks to everyone the same whether they command an army or have nothing but their name.

At the market, dressed in drab clothes, the queen, crown prince, and princesses pretend to be a woman out shopping and her children. She buys bolts of cloth while Yvette charms the vendors, Rochelle speaks to a pickpocket, and Jacques sneaks scraps to a skinny dog who will follow them home and join the family.

In the coming years, Jocelyn will pretend she doesn't know Rochelle vanishes every Monday afternoon, meeting the pickpocket for lessons. A guard follows her, far enough away to not be noticed, but close enough to act. The lessons evolve, of course. By the time she's seventeen, Rochelle's pickpocket has stolen her heart and a dozen kisses and what the late Queen Mother would've said should be saved for the marriage bed. Jocelyn just barely keeps the pickpocket from execution for that.

Yvette is Jacques' most trusted advisor, as he studies statecraft. The courtiers still don't know about the spy in their midst, the secrets revealed to their king and future king. Jocelyn has almost convinced Jacques to appoint his sister the position of spymaster, when the throne is his.

Aaron is a good king and a loving husband, but he has always known privilege, like all his advisors, all his courtiers, even the guards. He still sometimes ignores the servants, not seeing them even as they serve his dinner. But Aaron's children have toiled – a week a year since each of them was six. They still don't fully understand the severity of Jocelyn's twelve years enslaved by her stepmother, but they walk the market like commoners and have friends of every social class, and she knows that her son and her daughters herald change.

Jacques ascends the throne at thirty-five, when Aaron steps down. The first thing he does, when the crown has barely been on his head for a minute, is tell Rochelle to marry her pickpocket. The next is to ask Yvette if she'll become his spymaster.

Aaron and Jocelyn go live by the sea. She walks amongst her people, listening as they praise her son, already beloved.

History, she knows, will remember him well. And Yvette and Rochelle, behind the scenes, the voices of the commoners and nobility both.

Yvette marries the younger son of a neighboring king; he willingly moves to live in a nice manor house just outside the capitol. Jocelyn is sure he never realizes just who he wed. Yvette puts down two attempted coups in forty-five years, before retiring in favor of her granddaughter. Jocelyn is long dead by that time, of course.

Rochelle weds her pickpocket in the spring after her brother is crowned. Her pickpocket figured out who she was during that very first meeting, two decades before, but everyone else she knows from the market is shocked. Her pickpocket has become respectable by their wedding, of course. He is Yvette's right hand, keeping the realm safe from the shadows. Rochelle implements literacy programs and juggles the tax laws so that the rich pay more and the poor pay less, and her husband saves her life no fewer than seven times over fifty years.

And Jacques. Dear Jacques. He is called Jacques the Merciful by history, the best beloved king their realm ever knows.

Jocelyn outlives her husband, and she is sitting on the balcony, remembering the first trip to the market with eight-year-old Jacques and two toddling girls, imagining the great things her babies will do, listening to the sea, when she breathes in, smiles at the sky, and never again breathes out.

The day King Aaron and Queen Jocelyn were crowned is declared a national holiday. She is laid to rest beside her husband and King Jacques' first granddaughter is named Jocelyn. His children know the value of hard work and walked the market dressed in drab clothing, and his heir, the Crown Princess Isabella, has her grandma's eyes and the laugh of the great-granda she never knew.


	14. petals and jewels

**Title:** petals and jewels

**Fandom:** fairy tales (Diamonds and Toads)

**Disclaimer:** not my characters

**Warnings:** spoilers for the fairy tale

**Pairings:** mentions of het

**Rating:** PG

**Point of view:** third

**Wordcount:** 135

**Prompt:** Any, Any, They all think you're so lucky but you never tell them the gemstones and roses hurt when they fall from your lips.

* * *

When she talks in her sleep, she wakes with diamonds on her chest and thorns digging into her breast, petals caressing where she bleeds.

When she cries for her father, rubies and emeralds fill her fingers instead of tears.

When she prays to the fairies for deliverance, amethyst is cold on her tongue and roses taste like ash.

Her sister is cursed. Everyone knows it. Just as everyone knows she is blessed, she who speaks in gems and flowers. She is rich, she will never want for anything again, men will beg for her hand and her bed. Her bed, where the petals and jewels lay.

When she whispers, a single sapphire falls for every word, and she catches tulips in her palms.

Oh, but how she wishes she had never gone to that well.


	15. Selkie Wife

Title: Selkie Wife

Written: February 26, 2013

Note: In my Fantasy&Folklore class, we had to present a traditional tale. As I researched my choice, the selkie wife, I grew angrier and angrier. Then this happened. The version I told in class was slightly different, but I kept one very important detail the same.

* * *

He found the skin

One beautiful day, midmorning and bright.

He kept it, of course, hidden well out of sight.

She searched and searched

And finally knocked on the door.

He knew her for what she was

And told her, "Be my wife."

She agreed, of course.

Don't they always?

_._

_(Yes, they do. _

_At first.)_

_._

He had work that took him far from home,

But now he had a wife to clean and

Have dinner ready when he came tromping in.

He claimed her at night,

This lovely woman who could not say no

Or risk her true-self destroyed.

She bore him two fine sons and a pretty daughter

And she smiled and kissed him

And always always listened for the sea

Whenever he was inside her.

.

_(The sea, the sea, the sea_

_Roaring in wait.)_

.

He never went to the skin.

Truthfully, he forgot where he'd hidden it,

Far from prying eyes,

As far from the sea as their village could be.

His sons grew tall and worked beside him,

Out on the ocean

Where the seals played.

His daughter heard the sea

No matter where in town she went,

And one day,

In a hole in the ground

In a box of stone and shell

She found a luxurious fur.

Never had she seen something so lovely.

Of course, she brought it home to her mama.

.

_(Home again, my love. _

_Home again soon.)_

.

One touch and she knew.

One glance and she yearned.

She smelt the salt air

And heard the wind churning up the water

And she told her daughter, "Don't tell your father."

Ocean howled in the words and her daughter swore.

.

_(Years taken. _

_Will be taken back.)_

.

She waited until the children were in bed.

She waited until her husband snored,

Barely able to use her before falling asleep.

She waited until the moon was high,

High as the sun the day she'd been stolen.

She waited until she could not wait a moment longer.

She woke him with a kiss

And he turned to her sleepily,

Stretching out his neck as he sought another kiss.

Never had she been stronger as when

She kissed his throat with the blade of the knife used for slicing fruit.

He choked, he gurgled, he reached for her with fumbling hands

And she watched, calm as the shallows, as he collapsed.

.

_(They always stay_

_Until they don't.)_

.

Their sons slept on.

Their daughter met her at the door.

"Will you come with me to the sea?" she asked,

Home warm in her hands.

"I'll come with you to the shore," her daughter said,

Crashing waves loud in her ears.

.

_(Home again, home again,_

_Home again soon.)_

.

She tore off a woman's nightclothes;

She kicked away a woman's shoes.

She threw all trappings of a woman's life away.

Her daughter watched and stayed silent

Until they both stood in the sea,

Her skin around her shoulders

About to make her whole again.

"Wait," her daughter said, reaching for her.

"I've heard the sea all my life, too."

She looked her daughter in the eye

And the girl asked, "Am I like you?"

.

_(Freed, freedom, free_

_Warm waters, cold waters, coming to me)_

.

"You could be," she answered.

Her daughter glanced back to the town,

To the moon high above the water,

To her mother, wild as the wind.

Her brothers slept; she knew her father was dead.

Waves crashed on the shore and a storm built on the air.

Her mother held out a hand

And her daughter closed her eyes

And together they dove beneath the water

Both as they should be again.

.

_(Swim far from the shore you've walked,_

_The shore you were taken from.)_

.

There was no husband in the sea;

She had yet been too young,

Still curious and naïve about landfolk.

There was no family in the sea;

They had all moved on when she didn't come home.

But she had her daughter,

And she had her freedom,

And she had the entire sea.

"Are you happy?" her daughter asked,

Looping and diving and laughing.

"Yes," she laughed in reply.

"I'm happy again."

.

_(Don't leave your skin on land,_

_We caution our daughters._

_Don't trust in landfolk,_

_We warn our sons._

_No one will fight for you,_

_We tell our children. _

_You must fight for yourself.)_

.

She watched her daughter

Chasing fish and investigating whales,

And she knew, deep down where she still

Had blood pooling across the bed,

That her daughter would always be safe, always be free,

No matter the blood spilt upon the ground.


	16. happily never after

Title: happily never after

I wrote this poem in about 50 minutes.

* * *

It's such a fairy tale, they say,

Those two finding each other at last

After years and years of searching,

Years and years of ache.

She's clever, he's brave;

She's lovely, he's handsome;

She's a princess in disguise

And he's a pauper seeking a grave.

Isn't that what they say?

.

Oh, sorry, wrong tale.

Let me begin again, yeah?

.

There once was a princess, cursed;

There once was a peasant, looking;

There once was a witch or a fairy or

An evil advisor in want of a throne –

Wasn't there a kingly father, somewhere,

Or a queenly mother without a voice?

.

No, no, that's still the wrong story.

Why are there so many to tell?

.

Can't you see the headlines now?

PRINCESS FOUND, they'll scream.

PEASANT HERO NOW OUR KING.

King. That's quite a leap for a poor boy,

Don't you think?

What about that princess – it's her throne, right?

No, she only ever held it in waiting

If she held it at all.

.

Wow, bitter much?

He needs a reward, doesn't he,

And she did need to be saved.

.

(Did she?

That's the story told, of course,

And we always know it's the truth.

About that, why would anyone lie?)

(Why would anyone lie?

There's a throne, and a crown,

Power for the taking –

A realm waiting for rule.

No, I can't see why anyone would lie.

Not at all.)

.

Oh, but aren't they so happy?

She loves him – you can tell by how

Nervous she is, never meeting his eyes.

Such a sweet girl, so shy!

And he, he's so in love,

Glowing with it as he gazes

Adoringly at her.

(Or is he looking at the gold around her throat,

The jewels in her tiara,

The marble floors and fine silver dishes.)

.

It doesn't matter, does it?

He broke the spell.

He saved the princess.

Of course he gets the girl.

.

(Or does he?

Lickety split, she runs.)

.

They'll ask the mirror, of course –

_Mirror, mirror, on the wall,_

_Where does she run, our fairest of all?_

And the mirror, I'm sure, will answer true.

_S__he runs away_ the mirror will say,

_Into a tale of her own._

.

(Is that a smile, hiding in the corner

Of the voiceless queen's lips?

Oh, Mother, did you once wish to run?

Oh, Mother, you wanted to run so fast.)

.

It's such a fairy tale, they say,

The pretty princess and the peasant brave.

She was cursed and he has honor;

He'll find her and he'll be our king.

He'll search for years, if he must,

His reward finally in reach.

Her prize is being his bride.

What more could a pretty princess want?

.

_Once upon a time, there was a princess,_

_Prettiest girl in all the land_.

_Once upon a time, there was a monster_

_W__ho once upon a time had been a man_.

.

Let's tell this story right.

.

There was a girl,

Who just happened to be the only daughter of a king.

What no one remembers is how that king earned his throne.

He wasn't the son of any royalty.

What he did is legend,

Though very common 'round these parts.

Our king was the youngest son of a noble who lost his fortune,

And he saved our queen (still just a princess,

Only daughter of another king

Who had to earn his throne by marrying a princess)

From a nasty curse.

.

Who is casting all these curses?

Why is it that all our princesses need to be saved?

(We don't ask that question.

We don't wonder.

This is just how it is.

Listen.)

.

Kingdoms need kings.

You never hear anything about queendoms.

.

(Run run, princess.

Run fast and run far.

I don't think you'll find your happy ending here.

Run, princess.

Keep running and don't look back.

I hope you find your happiness somewhere.)

.

PRINCESS MISSING, the headlines scream.

PEASANT HERO SEARCHES FOR BRIDE.

He's not so pleasant, now,

Tearing up the kingdom for our queen-to-be.

.

(I heard tell of a realm, three lands over,

By the sea.

Two queens sit side-by-side on the thrones.

While our peasant hero burns the forests

To flush out whatever might be hiding,

A law is passed there that breaking curses

No longer turns ordinary men into kings.

Our king is furious,

But a smile lurks on our queen's face.

It won't be long before she runs. )

.

It's quite the fairy tale, isn't it?

She's the queen on the throne,

Holding hands with her queenly bride,

And he's shouting at the sky.

She's the princess no-longer-in-disguise

And he's the pauper about to find a grave.

.

Yes, that sounds right.

Put it in the history books;

Make sure everybody knows.

.

This is how the story goes.


	17. Red as Blood

Title: Red as Blood

Fandom: Snow White

Disclaimer: the characters are public domain, right?

Warnings: um. yeah. Rape, death, violence, vengeance.

Pairings: 'evil queen'/Snow White's dad; non-con douchebag soldiers/'evil queen's mom; 'evil queen's parents

Rating: PG13

Wordcount: 790

Point of view: third

Notes: I want to write dark AUs for a few Disney movies. This is what happened when I set out of do that.

More notes: There is room for _so much_ more in this 'verse. I do kinda wanna write it.

Still more notes: After I wrote this, it occurred to me that this could've been the way _Snow White and the Huntsman_ went, if the evil queen had been smarter about it. (Also, had a much more personal stake in Snow White's kingdom.)

* * *

She imbues the apple she offers the king with the strongest curse of all the lands. Her grandmother taught the curse to her after her now-husband's royal father's men finished with her mother, leaving her on her own bed, barely gasping, tears on her face and so much blood -

The apple she offers the king is as red as her mother's blood, the blood she saw when she crept from the secret room her mother had shoved her in while her father died holding the invading soldiers off.

Gran taught her the curse two days after they burned her parents in cleansing fire.

"All those painted in our blood, dearling," Gran said, "will die slowly, screaming from wounds only they feel. Everything they inflicted on our blood will be inflicted on theirs." Gran paused, staring down at her, only seven years old, but ready to kill, to _avenge._ "Watch," Gran said.

She watched, she learned, and she never forgot.

In thirty years, she will meet the king, son of the man whose army conquered her homeland. She will be a noble's daughter: rich, beautiful, and able to make the grieving widower laugh. The princess will be seven years old, with no memory of her mother, who died of wasting disease mere months after her daughter's birth.

The princess will be collateral damage, like a town that was left as ashes, blood in the street. Apologies and wergild mean nothing, and until everyone of guilty blood is gone -

She imbues the apple with Gran's curse, the curse Gran said could be adjusted in intensity, and then she brings the apple to her marriage bed.

"I went walking in the fruit garden," she tells her husband, who had been newly knighted and on the other end of the realm from her home's slaughter. "I saw this and it reminded me of you." She holds up the apple, shiny as freshly-spilled blood. "Eat it with me," she murmurs, biting in and pulling it away. "Let it symbolize our love, shared and shared alike."

He reaches for it, bites into it, and smiles at her.

In six months, he wastes away, victim of the plague the army brought back from her homeland, that has been inflicting the realm for decades now. Gran was not the only vengeful sorceress, just the most powerful.

She will be regent until the king's daughter turns eighteen - but the princess, darling of the realm, sadly wastes away, too. The winter after her father, eight winters after her mother, the princess dies, too weak to even sob in fear, and she holds her stepdaughter close as the girl breathes out her last breath.

There are no apologies or wergilds for the royal family.

She wears black when she is crowned queen, alone on the throne and with no one waiting to take it from her. All the heirs - her late husband's brother, nephew, cousin, cousin's daughter - have succumbed to the plague. Everyone with her husband's father's blood in their veins is dead. The bloodline has been destroyed, wiped from the face of the earth, and magick ensures there is no one with a drop of it left.

Apples bloom in the heart of winter and her smile is red as blood, her dress black as ebony, and her crown white as snow.

"Mirror mirror," she says, alone in her room while her new realm mourns, "show me my home."

Rebuilding is slow, even thirty years later. So little was left, for her people fight to their last breaths. Her childhood home, where her parents died, has long since fallen in, but the mirror shows her what remains.

She sends a message to the governor her late father-in-law appointed to the province that was once a thriving nation; what was once her house, and the rest of that block, becomes a budding school for mages, named for the late princess - _Snow White Academy for the Magical Arts_, the sign proclaims while it is constructed.

She laughs every time sees it in the mirror or hears a report on its progress, and she knows Gran cackles in the afterlife, too.

For a time, she thought about tearing her new realm down to the bare bones and leaving it dry. But she decided, instead, to turn it into an oasis for the magic her husband's father hated and feared, and so she does. The people are hesitant, but she still wears black in mourning and they see her as one of their own. She asks for their trust and they are rewarded when everything flourishes.

The Snow White Academy has sister schools in every major city and the queen thanks her people for having such open hearts.


End file.
